


No Mere Mortal

by Batastic_Grayson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel is Not Oblivious (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Has Commitment Issues, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Dean Winchester is Protective of Castiel, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Short & Sweet, Slow Burn, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23386990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batastic_Grayson/pseuds/Batastic_Grayson
Summary: When Castiel envisioned himself confessing his feelings for Dean Winchester, he never pictured it happening on a job...or midway through an argument...or perhaps even at all. He sure as hell didn't expect Dean's response either. But here he is-confessing his love to his best friend, and somehow, he really believes everything is going to be okay. Now, if he can just get Dean on board with that...
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 71





	No Mere Mortal

I forget that he’s a human sometimes.

It’s easy to do, really. Despite all his bad habits, his vices and addictions, he’s usually somewhat unflustered by the goings on of everyday tragedies. I suppose it’s exposure that made him this way. Somewhere along the road, I’m sure things like death, sickness, and heart ache touched him in a visible way. Maybe when he was a boy, he broke underneath the pressure of loss. Maybe his eyes grew dark and he receded in a physical way.

But the Dean I know, the one that he presents to the world, has long since moved on from normal human responses. Death is a regular occurrence in his life, and unless it’s someone like Sam doing the dying…he moves on. He forces a smile, works through the hidden pain, and he focuses on the small victories. As fatalist as he can be, Dean tries to be an optimist at heart. He wants to believe in the best, and usually, he chooses to believe that the good guys win, and the bad guys lose. It’s intrinsic to his personality. Without his wavering belief that what he does _matters_ …well, he wouldn’t be himself.

Tonight, he isn’t himself, and the shift is palpable.

I can feel it in the way the trees move around us, as if his very presence is poisonous to their growth. I can taste the shift in the air, touched with something that evokes images of rust and smoke. It feels noxious and dark—like sludge.

Further, the change in Dean is physical. His eyes aren’t their normal shade of evergreen, having taken on faded denim instead, and his demeanor is quieter than usual. His mouth is drawn, skin washed out, gestures drained of energy and purpose. His posture is all fine lines of control, little motions that denote he’s _this_ close to breaking, and being around him feels like playing with fine china. It’s only a matter of time before he fissures into a million pieces.

We trudge along the edge of a property line, picking our way over broken fencing and patches of thistle. The air is balmy at his hour, close to dusk, and although the temperature is starting to cool, I can see beads of sweat collecting on the nape of Dean’s neck in front of me. I’m following close behind him, waiting for him to speak, but perhaps that is a foolish plan. After all, he’s only ever proceeded at his own pace, in his own time.

Thinking he’ll discuss his emotions with me of his own volition is a pointless exercise. He won’t.

I risk clearing my throat, working for nonchalance. I’ve never been very good at human conversation, and my voice sounds unnecessarily stilted. “You’ve been…quiet this evening.”

When I receive no response, I try again, this time softening my tone a bit, “If there’s ever anything you want to talk about Dean, I’m more than willing to—”

“There’s not.”

“Oh.” I accelerate the clip of stride to match his, coming up beside him. Persistence is key, right? Isn’t that the mortal saying? “Well, you’ve just seemed—”

“Upset?”

I blink, trying to decipher what the tightening of his features means. I can only see his periphery, but it’s shrouded in some sort of shadow I can’t name. “Yes. Upset. Maybe angry.”

“Yeah, well, I am angry, Cas. Doesn’t mean I wanna talk about it with _you_ , okay?”

My eyes fall to the twisted weeds beneath us when a pair of grey eyes flash to me angrily and tighten, and my voice dies before it’s even begun. What am I supposed to say? Clearly, I’ve upset him somehow. Maybe it’s best if I don’t say anything further.

A minute or two passes. The cicadas have begun buzzing from the tree line at our right, and I can hear the distant croak of frogs awakening after the recent rain. Humid air presses like kisses to our skin, leaving us both somewhat damp, and even I am starting to feel uncomfortable.

It seems an eternity later when Dean sighs, and although I dare not look at him again, his voice has softened when he says, “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick, I’m just—I’m not—” He breaks off, and I attempt a quick glance in his direction. I find him glaring down at the dirt, brows furrowed over eyes that are still faded and tired.

“You’re tired.” The word supplies itself to me and offering it to Dean only seems right.

I can tell he appreciates it when he lifts a shoulder and nods, “Yeah, I’m tired, Cas.”

“But of what?”

This time, Dean laughs. It’s not a joyful laugh though. It’s cut with a tone like sardonic ash, and it feels more sarcastic, more pained, than happy. My chest _aches._

“Of everything, man. All of this bullshit we do day in, day out. Traveling to all these new places, ganking the things that go bump in the night—that’s the easy part. It’s the pissing matches with demons and angels, the dead loved ones, the constant threat of losing everyone dear to me—” His eyes flash to me here, “It’s everything. All of it.”

Unsure of how to respond, I offer a simple, “Oh.”

This time, he stops, and his expression has turned somewhat desperate when he stares at me, “I mean, don’t you ever get tired of it all, Cas? The death, the pain, that follows us around? Don’t you ever just wanna—call it quits?”

I blink, cocking my head, “Quits?”

He waves an explanatory hand, “Yeah, quits. Retire to heaven, hang up your halo, whatever the hell it is you angels do when you’re done with this shit show.”

I consider him a moment, “Angels don’t ever retire, Dean. It’s not exactly in the job description.”

“But couldn’t you? If you really wanted to?” He shrugs, gesturing out to the expanse of field on our left as if it were the entire world. “I mean, it’s not like God’s coming back anytime soon. You could always miracle yourself a nice cabana and lay on a beach somewhere.”

I frown when my stomach tightens around his words like flesh around shards of glass, and I shake my head, “Why would I want that?”

This time he scowls. “Oh, come on. Don’t play stupid, Cas! No more demons, no more monsters, no more death. You could get out of this. You could leave if you wanted.”

When his eyes meet mine now, I can see that this conversation is less about him, and more about me. That’s why the atmosphere of this conversation has felt so dark—he’s not upset with himself. He’s upset with me.

I’ve seen how he watches me on hunts now, how his entire energy has shifted around me since I’ve begun hunting full time. He’s more cautious, more protective. Certainly, more nervous—it often feels like he’s just crackling with unspent energy, waiting for something bad enough to happen that I’ll bolt. Even last week, when we had a close call with a djinn that nearly ended me, I could feel him waiting for me to leave. Maybe he _wanted_ me to leave.

I wish it were that easy, honestly.

But the truth is, I’m too emotionally involved with Dean Winchester to just leave him. And I think we both know it. It’s likely why he is growing so impatient with me now, why he’s so confused about why I’ve stayed. It would be easier if I tucked tail and ran, like the rest of his friends. My presence, my meaning in his life, as it is, makes him vulnerable. And if there’s one thing I know about Dean, it’s that he hates to feel vulnerable.

“What if I didn’t want to leave, Dean? Is that so hard to imagine?”

“Yes! It doesn’t make any goddamn sense to me, and it shouldn’t to you either. Sam and I? We were born into this life, raised in it. We’ll die in it too. But you? Cas, you—we almost lost you a few days ago, _really_ lost you, and if that happened, I—”

He breaks off, turns away from me with a sharply drawn sigh. His hands have gone to his hips, and when he turns back to me, his demeanor has changed again. Dean frowns, and the shades of dusk paint his features in watercolor shades of purple and blue that ripple and shift with his mood. Right now? They make his whole posture weep with a pleading and sorrow that send ice to my very marrow.

“Cas, you don’t have to do any of this. You could be safe, _happy_ even.” He tilts his head, eyes washing to a soft evergreen when he takes a step nearer. “Don’t you want that?”

As often as I forget that Dean is human, I also forget that I am an angel. When I’m with the boys, hunting things and working on a team that feels more like family than my actual blood, I forget that I spent my youth in the halls of heaven. I forget the slights of my kin and my unnatural abilities. For a moment, I only enjoy wildflowers and honeybees, greasy fries and pancakes, Queen music and green eyes. I like sunsets and the smell of leather upholstery. Quiet nights like this one and orange juice in the morning.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m just a man. Just…Castiel. Nothing more, nothing less.

But then moments like this occur. Moments where Dean is standing close to me and his eyes are pleading with me to leave, but I can _feel_ every atom of his being asking me to stay. His lips tell me that I’m not safe here, and yet his very cells are singing that he wants me nearby. He’s a cacophony of competing songs, one bitter and afraid, the other innocent and honest. It’s my abilities that allow me to feel them both, allow me to see the warring of different desires flickering across his features out to me.

He’s asked me a question. Don’t I want safety and comfort? Don’t I want normalcy?

I shake my head, “No. I don’t want that.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t posture the question in an accusing manner—it’s open and transparent. I can see the strands of confusion, of fear and sadness and something _soft_ , weaving from him like a tapestry. Fuchsia and olive, tangerine and threads of navy. Woven cloth, strong as steel, surrounding his ribcage like armor.

It’s a simple question. A simple answer too.

“I wouldn’t have you.”

He blinks, and the tapestry shifts, a strand of surprise threading around him in brilliant shades of ruby. “Me? You’d give up all that—rosy retirement, all you can eat buffets, sand on the beach…for me?”

I nod.

His expression shifts into bewilderment, eyebrows arching high, “Why the fuck would you do that?”

It’s the first time I smile tonight, and it’s soft and brief. Perhaps it says more than it should, but I’m tired of tiptoeing around feelings and propriety. If Dean doesn’t already know how I feel, then he’s either too stupid to understand or too stubborn to admit it. And I know Dean. He isn’t stupid.

Even so, a bubble of fear crawls up my spine at the thought of being frank. I’m not good at lying, I never have been, but the truth…it can be divisive. It can be painful. But I believe in the goodness of timing, and if there’s ever a time to confess your love for your best friend, at dusk in the woods seems as good as any.

After a moment of silence on my end, Dean arches a brow, gesturing for me to continue. I shift, inhaling a soft breath.

“I have a family here—a life. Dean, whatever cosmic circumstances brought us together, I believe that they happened for a reason. I choose to stay with you, because I trust those reasons. Because I trust you. And most importantly…because I’m in love you.”

Surprisingly, his expression doesn’t dip straight to surprise like I anticipated it would, but instead falls somewhere just north of sorrow. My stomach curdles instantly when he spins on his heel and groans.

“No, no, no…” It isn’t entirely encouraging when he makes another sound of distress and scrubs a hand over his jaw, features drawn as he begins pacing, “Cas, you can’t…you can’t be in love with me, okay?”

I tilt my head, humoring him, “Why not?”

“I’m no good for you, man. I mean…” He stutters, voice halting, “Come on, Cas. You’re an angel. I’ve been to _Hell_ for fucks’ sake—a _few_ times.”

“And I’d raise you a few more times, Dean. It is long past that my title of ‘angel’ was revoked anyhow. What does this have to do with love?”

“What does this—” his brows scrunch, “This has everything to do with love! I’m not… _good_. And you’re…Cas, you’re good. You’re so, so good. I’d ruin you—I’d get you killed.”

I inhale a sigh. The atmosphere around him is flickering in burnt shades of sienna and azure, like a mirage shimmering around his pacing frame.

“You’re scared.”

He stops pacing, and all at once, I’m reminded again of how many times this man has lost someone close to him. His expression winds tight into a scowl, and he lifts a finger to stab it at my chest roughly, “You’re damn right, I’m scared, and I have a fucking good reason to be. Do you know what happens to people who love me, Cas? To people I love back?”

My stomach gives a jolt at that, and I blink at him in stunned silence. He admitted it. All this time, I knew. But hearing it out loud? 

My expression of surprise only seems to make Dean more distressed, because he grips my lapels with both hands, voice inching towards something desperate. “I lose them. Every. Single. Time. Every single one. I lose them all. Something, someone takes them from me and it either destroys them or murders them. Every time. And I can’t—I can’t lose you, Cas, okay? Not you. You of all people…”

His hands loosen on my lapels, but they stay on my chest, warm pressures through the fabric of my trench coat. His voice is raw, chafed dry when it emerges, and I can see the presence of moisture barely contained in his eyes. “I’ve lost too many. I can’t lose you too. Just…please.”

“Dean…”

“I’m not joking, Cas.”

“Dean.”

I tip my chin to catch his eyes, and it’s the first time I risk such a motion when I lift one of my hands to his cheek. I let my fingertips drift from his brow down to his jawline, a feather of contact, and his brows twist in pain at the action, eyes shuttering closed. He draws in a shuddering breath, one last strand of resistance, and gradually, slowly, he leans into my palm.

Touching someone as an angel is an intimate act, no matter how inane the contact, and now is no different. I can feel his skin singing beneath my fingers, I can feel his very soul leaning forward, whispering how much he loves me back. I can feel the whispers of emotion echoing through Dean’s atoms into my hand. Every bit of pain, of love and strife, anger and release, fair bleeds into my fingertips. It’s a testament to my own will that I don’t buckle beneath the pure beauty of such a moment and weep. It rivals the genesis of creation itself.

“Be at peace.” I murmur the words softly, brushing my knuckles from temple to jawline again, “I am no mere mortal, Dean. My safety aside…even if I wanted to, which I don’t…I could not leave you now.”

Eyes the same shade of new buds on a tree flicker open to me. The fading hues of dusk, now turned dusty purple and rose, shadow his features, but I can see that his eyes are gentle now.

“Why not?”

“If I asked you to leave, even if it was for your safety, would you? _Could_ you?”

I feel his jaw flex beneath my palm, and he’s quiet for a damning moment before he whispers, “No. You’re my family. You’re…”

His voice fades. I feel the hidden words singing from him to me though, repeating over and over between us in a chorus of inaudible chants. _Mine._

My brow wrinkles, and my stomach twists in pain. Puckered flesh around glass again. “Then why would you ask this of me when you know I cannot?”

His expression is earnest, drained, sorrowful, when his eyes lift to me and shrugs, “I don’t want to lose you, Cas. And I’m—God, I’m afraid I might someday.”

I inhale softly, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone again. His hands have gone loose on my chest, and his eyes intent on me. “You might lose me one day, Dean. Whatever you call it—death, fate, God…it comes when it comes.” I shake my head, “But today isn’t that day, and I’m not interested in cutting this short before it’s ever even started. Are you?”

There’s a deep silence. A deep hesitation. But eventually, he shakes his head quietly, just enough that I can see the motion, and I note that the air around him has shifted to ripples of plum and flax, warm and buttery and _calm_. I can feel the resolution in him when he leans forward, close enough that we rest our foreheads together, and his eyelids flutter closed with a sigh. His hands are taut on my shirt front again, but they don’t ask for anything further. This moment, as it is, as quiet and unobtrusive as it is, is enough. For now, we are content to lean together, breathing the same air, sharing the same quiet realization. 

“We have time, Dean. Lots of time,” I murmur after a moment, skimming my nose to his temple.

Dean sighs again, little moments of stillness as the emotional dams break, and he leans into me further. This time, his arms wind around me, in a hug that is both unpracticed and, on any other day, forbidden. But today, he’s soft and warm and everything he’s afraid of. He’s the Dean I know again.

He holds me tight to his chest, like I might blow away if he doesn’t, and his breath is warm against my neck when he whispers back roughly, “We have time.”

I wilt into him in a way I never have before, and I hold him back like my life depends upon it. We cling to each other as the sun slips below the horizon. It doesn’t last as long as I’d like before Dean slips back from me, discreetly rubbing at his eyes, but I note that he doesn’t unlink our hands when he does so. He keeps my fingers wound tightly with his, and somehow, when I look up into his evergreen eyes now shaded by twilight, I can see hope in their depths.

We have time.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters, but I definitely own the story! Lemme know what you thought in the comments:) Thanks for reading.


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